Tel Aviv tales of terror and toenails

(JNS) — Tuesday evening. The conductor of the train from Jerusalem to Herzliya apologizes to passengers ahead of the first stop in Tel Aviv after Ben-Gurion Airport.

“Sorry, but we can’t go any farther,” he announces over the loudspeaker. “The security situation doesn’t allow for it.”

Irritated sighs could be heard from rush-hour commuters, tired mothers with cranky children and travelers with suitcases in tow. Sketchy internet connections disrupted the updated emergency alert instructing the entire country to shelter until further notice. Earlier in the afternoon, the directive had been a bit less dramatic, urging the public to remain near safe rooms.

Though it was made clear that an attack from Iran was imminent, many Israelis believed that barrages from the Islamic Republic would resemble those launched in April—hundreds arriving in the area late at night, when the bulk of the populace was at home in bed, and with the vast majority intercepted before reaching Israeli airspace.

Ahead of that aerial assault, Israelis had been told to prepare for various scenarios, including blackouts and water shortages. For a couple of weeks, there was a rush on batteries and canned goods. But that sense of panic passed even before the fateful night; afterwards, it was merely the source of jokes.

Missiles and drones flying from all directions had become by this point and since then a regular occurrence, certainly in the north of the country, which has been bombarded hourly by Hezbollah from Lebanon without letup. And that’s not taking into account the occasional blitz from the Houthis in Yemen and more sporadic ones from Hamas in Gaza. Nor does it include a little help from the militias in Iraq.

It’s hard to believe, but Israelis have grown so used to the seven-front war that we have trouble taking enhanced warnings as seriously as we should. It’s nothing like the “boy who cried wolf,” however, since we are fully aware of the existence—and deadly intent—of the enemies around us.

When the train comes to a halt and there’s no choice but to exit at an inconvenient station, everyone files out in search of alternate transportation. Nowhere to be found, taxis aren’t an option.

The nearest bus stop is located across from the entrance to the station, but it’s impossible to cross the street directly, due to massive light-rail construction. The only way to reach it is by taking a long walk around the extensive barriers.

During the trek to the bus, news of a multi-casualty terrorist attack in Jaffa, some 10 minutes away, begins to circulate. Phone notifications are beeping with messages from concerned friends informing that the perpetrators might still be on the loose.

The buzz explains the plethora of police cars and ambulances whizzing by the crowd, now less annoyed at the setback in schedule than anxious about the event. (Later it would emerge that seven people—including the mother of a nursing nine-month-old—had been murdered in cold blood by two Palestinians from Hebron.)

The bus thankfully arrives, yet the relief is short-lived, as the blaring of air-raid sirens forces all passengers to disembark and lie on the sidewalk, hands on heads to minimize shrapnel injury. The practice is probably about as effective as masks in preventing the spread of COVID.

Nevertheless, the Home Front Command rule is that in the absence of a bomb shelter, fortified room or stairwell, the road—as far away from cars as possible—is the only recourse during a rocket barrage.

“Shema Yisrael!” a woman yells, grabbing on to a stranger for dear life. Her hysterical recitation of the Jewish prayer, “Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One” is drowned out by the din of interceptions above. These are filmed by some young men disobeying directives in order to post the experience on social media.

During each lull in explosions, everyone returns to the bus, brushing off filth from their clothes. The grooming is pointless, given the number of subsequent sirens that require a repeat of the ritual on the pavement.

The ride from hell seems endless. When it finally arrives at its destination, an eerie silence suddenly pervades the neighborhood. The massive attack from Tehran has come to a halt. Hezbollah then resumes pummeling the north.

The darkness is unsettling on what is a typically bustling avenue in Tel Aviv—especially on the day before the eve of the Jewish New Year. The sole storefront with its lights beaming turns out to be a nail salon.

Inside, three customers with their feet in a tub are chatting away cheerfully. As one hairdresser quips the next morning: “Chipped nail polish and split ends before Rosh Hashanah is a fate worse than death for patrons of the beauty business.”

He recounts being holed up in a bomb shelter with the residents of his building for the duration of the assault. Its completion is of no comfort to the 20-somethings who tremble with each new boom that shakes the edifice.

When the “all clear” notice pops up on their phones, he invites them to his apartment for a pot-luck dinner of omelets, salad and pizza. They talk about plans for the holidays and the upcoming anniversary of the Oct. 7 massacre, when some lost loved ones attending the Nova music festival.

They discuss which of them or their family members is being called up to reserves, some in Gaza, others in Lebanon—and whose parents are unable to return to evacuated homes. The host tells them about the busy morning awaiting him: highlights for one woman, a Brazilian blow-out for another and a spray tan for a third.

He calculates how quickly he’ll have to work in order to make it to his mother’s house before his father gets back from the synagogue. The timetable, he says on Wednesday morning, stresses him out more than the sirens.

It’s an attitude that makes Israel unbeatable.